


Doctor House and the Case of the Broken Man

by Active_Imagination



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Active_Imagination/pseuds/Active_Imagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story that takes place after Wilson's death, where House is still alive but legally dead to the world. House stumbles across a badly injured man. This story is just the tale of two broken men, and them trying to make sense of the world and their place in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet Cute

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a meet cute. This is the meeting of two very broken men, and my attempt to fix one or both of them before March 8th. There's a rape mention, which will be explored later, and graphic description of injuries. If there's any other trigger warning you think I need to post, let me know. I don't want to upset anybody, but this is something I need to post.

It was dark, cold, and rather dangerous in the streets of Hell's Kitchen. That didn't stop Gregory House from going for a stroll, wandering without purpose, possibly hoping to find oblivion. Instead, he found a semi-conscious man, covered in blood and dressed in nothing but bloodied tighty whities that were no longer white. House began to walk the other way, but something stopped him.

“He's not my problem.” House insisted, arguing with a voice that only he could hear. “Somebody else can help him.” Another silence, apart from the voice in House's head. The beaten man was conscious, clearly in a lot of pain, but he wasn't asking for help. That was interesting. “God, you're annoying.” House sighed, before going to help the stranger.

“What happened to you? Were you raped?” House rolled his eyes as the voice only he could hear admonished him. The man he asked though, he chuckled darkly, barely conscious. 

“Not today.” He smiled, struggling to stay conscious. His swollen eyes flew open as fast and as far as they could. “Did he make it out okay?” concern was battling with consciousness, and House needed this man to stay awake.

“Who?” Instead of an answer, the man shook his head, causing the blood to drip further. 

“Don't know his name. But I gave him the money, and they took it from him. I made him a target.” House rolled his eyes. He hated dealing with patients, and their irrationality and their feelings. He thought about leaving, but Wilson would be so disappointed in him. 

“Oh shut up.” House exclaimed, before adding with a smirk. “Come with me if you want to live.” The man stayed, rooted to the spot. “What, you don't want to live?”

“I want to know he's okay. I told him to go. Clinton Mission Shelter. I need to...” The man started walking away, his left leg almost giving way with every step.

“So you can come with me, I can patch you up and I also have this neat new invention called a telephone. You can call from there. Now, let's get going before you pass out of blood loss.” The injured man nodded slowly, as House reluctantly handed over his cap, his leather jacket, and eventually, after some mumbling, his cane. 

House took the man's slow acceptance of the items as time to fully assess him. The head wound was bloody and it was impossible to know how deep it went, but a concussion seemed likely. Several ribs were cracked, if not broken. The lacerations to the man's stomach would need stitches, but it didn't smell like they had perforated the bowel or he'd be dead. Underneath all the blood and chest hair was a ragged scar from a heart transplant, far too messy to be a surgical scar. The absence of a left hand was something House should have noticed sooner, but it was the metal fittings that made him curious. 

The assessment had to be cut short, because the man still wasn't responding. “You have a broken leg, you dumb ass. And it's a five minute walk back to my place. I'm not carrying you.”

“I'm not asking you to.” The man made no move to put the jacket or cap on, even though the cap might stop the blood from getting in his eyes. 

“No, you're not.” House realized. “Most people don't like being in pain.” He took out a bottle of vicodin, dry-swallowing a couple, as if to prove his point that he was the authority on pain. “You don't like being in pain. So why endure it? Do you think it's noble, because it's not. Pain doesn't make you tougher, it makes you bitter.”

“I'm not bitter.”

“What are you?” House asked, but the broken man didn't know how to answer. “What's your name?”

“Captain Tom Metsker, and I don't leave men behind.” House was about to call the man an idiot, but a voice inside of him reminded him that the man had a pretty bad head wound, and was probably in shock too, physical and psychological. He was still being an idiot though.

“Well, I'm a Doctor and that outranks Captain. So get your ass moving, and we can call your guy who is probably fine, after I've patched you up so you don't die, okay? You can't check to see he's okay if you're dead.”

Blinking slowly, the man then put on the jacket and the cap, without even wincing. The cane was trickier. It was his left fibula that was fractured, and he couldn't use the cane on his left side because he had no left hand to hold it with. So he used it on his right, and tried to put as little weight on his left as possible, but the pain was excruciating. He passed out, and House was unable to catch him. 

At least being unconscious on the floor slowed the bleeding, but he needed to be awake and moving in order for House to get him into a position where he could stop the bleeding all together. 

“Hey.” House nudged him with his foot, wincing at the pain in his right leg. He was tempted to take back his cane, but that was on the floor too. “Wake up.” The man began to stir.

“Wh... was there an explosion?” He asked, shivering into the leather coat he seemed confused by. 

“No. I think you were attacked. Do you remember your name?”

“Agent Mike Casper, FBI.” The Agent cried out in pain as he tried to stand, far less stoic than Captain Metsker. “There wasn't an explosion?” House didn't curse or insult the man, because he realized that the last thing Casper probably remembered was an explosion. 

“No. But if you come with me, Agent, I can get you patched up.” The Agent picked himself up, using the cane. He put a hand to his head, the cap was starting to leak blood. 

“Were there any other casualties?” Wow. The identities were different, but they still had the same pathological concern for others instead of self. 

“I believe one other man was injured in the attack, but he's been sent to Clinton Mission Shelter.”

“We're not in Washington?” Another question, but one that Casper was asking himself. “We're in Hell's Kitchen. Things are bad here, but it's not a matter of national security. Why am I here?” Casper's confusion was compounded by the concussion, and he struggled to remain conscious, despite his curiosity. 

“Hey, stay with me, okay? It's just a little further. Do you want some vicodin?” His offer surprised himself, but was declined by Casper.

“No. I can stay awake when it hurts. Pain helps me stay awake.” Now, that sounded like a mantra. It was a lousy one, because too much pain causes you to pass out, or hallucinate. As does sleep-deprivation, and that was an easy diagnosis. The man was clearly sleep-deprived, and that was just one thing on a long list that could have been affecting his sanity.

“You still with me?” House nudged the man who was leaning heavily against him. The man looked at him, confusion evident on his face. Clearly not. “What's your name this time?”

“Calvin Trager.” His speech was slurred. House was not worried, but he slung an arm around the man's waist and picked up the pace any way. 

“Yeah? What do you do?”

“CEO of... Quo Vadimus.” Blood was leaking from the cap, dripping down his face again. It was also dripping out of the bottom of the leather jacket. “We're... tech company. Communication, medication, transportation. I... opening a new office... Hell's Kitchen.” He looked so pale, the moonlight just adding to the pallor, and making the blood look darker against the ghostly skin. 

“Hey! Wake up Calvin!” If there was an edge to House's voice, he'd deny it was concern. 

“Calvin?” More confusion.

“Mike, Tom, Calvin, whatever. Just stay awake.” House snapped, before letting curiosity get the better of him. “Tell me your name.”

“You're Doctor House, aren't you?” That's not what House expected. “I'm Dr. John Walters. I'm a huge fan of the work you did at PPTH, the diagnostic department was revolutionary. Is this blood mine?” House looked like a deer caught in the headlights. With his vision blacking out, the man laid a hand on House's stubbled cheek, which felt like the kiss of death. “So you're not dead, House. Good for you.” 

When the multiple man passed out this time, House didn't ask him any more questions, just dragged him back to his place.


	2. Patchwork Doll (or Frankenstein's Monster)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House patches up the mystery man's body, but piecing together his identity proves to be a little trickier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: graphic depictions of injuries, but I'm no physician so I may have some medical facts wrong. I also feel that my words haven't done the mystery man's injuries justice.

House dragged the unconscious man back to his home, his place of work, where he briefly wondered if all the medical supplies and equipment was enough to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. 

Humpty was still bleeding from his body and his torso. House had to clean the wound out before sewing it up. It took over a hundred stitches. Glue would have been easier, but House was all out after trying to piece together the unlucky dog that was bred to fight. The dog died, but House was able to leave an anonymous tip that got the fights shut down. Wilson would have been proud of him.

House didn't need a CT scan to know that the guy had a skull fracture. House could see that with his own eyes. That was all he had to go on. He couldn't worry about what was going on inside the patient's head, all he could do was treat what he could see.

And he saw a lot of scars, and he knew there were scars he couldn't see. A distended bladder was the proof of that, and something House should have noticed earlier, it was large enough. He'd put some pressure on the bladder when he was sewing up the gashes on mystery man's abdomen, after picking out the glass. It must have been agony, but the guy didn't even stir in his sleep. 

Unconscious or not, House still used lidocaine on the poor man, before inserting the catheter. It required some force, to push through scar tissue in the urethra, hopefully not causing a tear. Surprisingly, when the urine did finally flow, it wasn't dark. 

After House had patched up the man's body, washed every inch of his skin, made a mental note of every scar both new and old, he still couldn't rest. Since the man's left hand was just a stump, House made sure his right hand was handcuffed to the operating table, before leaving with samples of his blood and urine. He rode his motorcycle over to 42nd street, and paid his contact at the storefront clinic $500 to run every test she could think of. The guy was still asleep when House got back. 

That was good. Sleep should help the body heal. Except it didn't look a very peaceful rest. House should have been catching up on sleep himself, but he found his new patient to be interesting. He looked middle-aged, underweight, but quite mundane. Without clothes, it was hard to see anything but the scars. 

House wasn't one for speculation, he was one for deduction. But for every scar there was a story that House couldn't determine, and he found himself imagining scenarios. House watched as his protagonist slept, worried lines still etched into his forehead. House drifted off, dreams mixing with imagination, which he still tried to observe objectively. 

The world was a battlefield, with debris and casualties scattered and discarded on the ground. Everything was gray or blood-red. Too loud, and too bright, even as white light shone through an atmosphere of ash. It smelled of death. House wanted to leave, but his attention was drawn to the sound of a cough, coming from underneath a gray steel desk, with panels of glass that slid to one side. 

Inside was a boy, he couldn't have been more than 8 years old, but still small for his age, small and sickly. His hands were shaking as he read a comic book, tilting the pages so he could see out of the one eye that wasn't swollen shut, the socket possibly broken. He kept glancing out at the world, only seeing the suffering in others, and not paying attention to his own wounds. 

The boy with sparkling blue eyes seemed so isolated, cut off from the world in a steel and glass cage, that wasn't protecting him nearly as much as he thought it was. It seemed so lonely, and House knew a thing or two about loneliness. He also recognized the boy who saved him from it. 

The boy with the impossibly large brown eyes seemed a couple of years younger, but he wasn't that much smaller. He slid in beside the other boy, placing a sloppy kiss on his bruised eye, not grossed out, just concerned. The older boy tried to reassure him with a smile, ruffling the fluffy brown hair, and wrapping an arm around him in an effort to protect him. He started to read the comic book out loud, even doing the voices. 

It was a good story. Absurdly moral and naive, where the hero always won, and there were no wounds that doctors couldn't fix. Justice always prevailed, and the world was a much safer world because of it. It was a good story, but House knew it was just a story. He'd never believed in fairy-tales, not even when he was their age. 

He'd looked away for just a second, but then there was silence, and the world got that much colder. The brown-eyed boy would never be opening his eyes again. The older boy had finally stopped shaking, and his bruises had healed, but inside he was broken. His heart, his mind, his hope had all been shattered, but he was still alive. 

And he was awake. 

House woke to find his mystery patient staring at him, but it was an absent stare. His hand was bloody, cut from the handcuffs. He must have tugged on them in his sleep, but he didn't cry out in pain. He seemed too broken to cry. 

“Thank you for patching me up, Doctor House, but you can let me go now. I promise, your identity is safe with me. Hell's Kitchen needs all the heroes it can get.” The stranger's voice was smooth, almost robotic. The tone and accent were different from any of the previous identities. Yet House's first remark was, 

“I'm no hero.”

“You could be.” He seemed so confident. “You were. All you may have cared about was solving the puzzle, but that was the difference between life and death for several people. You didn't have to stop to help me, and even if it was just boredom, I appreciate the fact that you patched me up. Thank you, Doctor House.”

House didn't know how to accept gratitude, especially since the puzzle hadn't been solved. It wasn't over yet.

“You can't leave. You broke your leg. I put a splint on it, but you should go see an orthopedist.”

“How can I see an orthopedist if you won't let me leave?” The question was innocent, it wasn't accusatory at all. Then there was a twinkle in the man's eyes, and the innocence was gone, replaced by an almost predatory look. “If you want me to stay, you can just ask. No need for the cuffs, unless you like things kinky.” The switch between personalities was highly unsettling.

“If I had known you were going to put up a fight, I'd have used the furry cuffs.” House quipped back, before asking “Does it hurt? Your hand?”

The man looked at his hand, as if noticing the wound for the first time. “Wow. That was stupid of me. I need this hand. It's the only one I have left.” The small smile seemed force, and did nothing to reassure House. 

“It'll leave a scar.”

“A wrist-watch will cover it.” Such a quick answer, so matter-of-fact. The guy had a lot of experience covering scars. “Please, Doctor House. I've taken up enough of your time.” He was so determined to leave, and House questioned if the guy even knew why.

“You suffered significant cranial trauma.”

“But I'm alive. So I should leave.”

“Do you know what day it is?” House asked. “Do you know where you live? Do you even know your own name?”

“Does it matter?” That was clearly a no. House was intrigued. The man had gone from having five different names, to having none.

“Does the name Calvin Trager mean anything to you?”

The man shrugged, sitting up on the table, his hand still chained to the edge. “Yeah, he's CEO of Quo Vadimus, and uses the funds from that business to run a charity called X-SHIELD.”

“Tom Metsker?”

“He's a Captain in the Army, a real father to the men and women that serve. I don't know him that well off the field.”

“Mike Casper?”

“An FBI Agent. National Security Branch. Mostly find him sat behind the desk. He'd like to be out in the field, but he has health issues.”

“And what do they look like?”

“Trager has a hair cut that costs more than Casper's suit. Metsker... wears an army uniform.”

“No, not their clothes.” House hobbled over to the table, perching on the end of it as he undid the handcuffs carefully, wiping away the blood with sterile gauze. “Their face.” The face House was currently staring at, fascinated. “Now, turn your head.” House knew he'd catch his reflection in the metal cabinet. 

“No. That can't... they are /good/ men.”

“Which implies you think you're not. Interesting.”

“I'm not them. I'm nothing. Nobody. Anonymous.”

“Well, Mr. AnonyMouse. You bled like a real human being, so you can't say you're nothing. Nothing doesn't bleed.”

“I'm an inconvenience.”

“You're interesting.”

“No, I'm not, House. I'm boring.”

“Well, I'm interested, Mouse.” House smirked. “Not in Casper. Not in Metsker. Not in Trager. Those guys are boring. Goody two shoes. Saps. Maybe you'll be like that too, but I think it'll be fun finding out.”

“I'm not a puzzle you can solve, House. There's too many missing pieces. Buried under an ocean of blood, and erased by technology that isn't even of this world. You just have to let this one go, House. Let me go.”

“Not until I'm satisfied you're well enough to leave.” 

“That's not like you, House.” It wasn't, but it was like Wilson. “This isn't about my health, this is about your curiosity, and that's something I can't satisfy. But maybe there's something else I can.”

And then he kissed him.


	3. Sex With Subtext

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House's patient initiates sex with an ulterior motive. House struggles to stay objective.
> 
> Trigger Warning: references to past abuse, so this questions consent.

House never saw the kiss coming, and quickly succumbed to the sensation. It was as if the guy was trying to crawl into his mouth, to hide there forever, and all House could do was open his mouth wider, inviting him in to stay. 

It was hard to think, which was probably the point, but House did pride himself on his extraordinary brain. He tried to catalogue every touch, every action, trying to find the rationale behind it, to stay objective... but it had been so long since anybody had touched him, since he had touched anybody.

House thought he might have to come up with a new nickname for the guy, because anonyMouse or not, he knew what he was doing. He was real, he felt so real, so tangible. Then he pulled back, looking at House with such emotion in his eyes. House was a genius, but he couldn't begin to decipher all the things that look said. 

It was a look that seemed to ask for permission, to study him with such an intensity that it was almost uncomfortable. House answered by mashing their lips together again, pulling Mouse closer with a hand on the back of his neck. 

Mouse didn't seem to even notice when House grabbed a handful of his naked butt, but when House began tracing the scars on his lower back, trying to figure out what they said through touch alone, Mouse definitely twitched, uncomfortable. It would have been interesting, if House wasn't so aroused. 

House was so lost in the kiss, it took him an unknown amount of time to realize that Mouse was tugging at House's t-shirt, trying to pull it up, struggling because his left stump had no grip, even if there was enough room to pull it over his head. House was reluctant to create a gap, just pulling back enough to mutter, 

“Do you need a hand?” It was a lousy pun, but Mouse giggled, actually giggled in a way that House didn't even know middle-aged men could. But then that same mouth bit House's neck playfully, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to draw blood, his tongue quickly soothing the sore skin, pain quickly mixing with pleasure. 

“Ass.” Mouse mumbled, hand still struggling with House's t-shirt, tearing it off in frustration. Mouse pulled back to look House in the eyes, with fear in his own. “I'm sorry.” House shut him up with another kiss, not wanting to hear those words, especially so sincere. 

House kept on kissing, even as Mouse's hand explored his chest, nimble fingers tweaking his nipple, eliciting a gasp, which Mouse used as an excuse to deepen the kiss. House's fingers absent-mindedly traced the scar on Mouse's chest, searching for a pacemaker that wasn't there but probably should have been.

“I can hear you thinking, Doctor House.” Mouse objected. “And as sexy as your brain is, Doc...”

“You don't want me thinking about you.” It was a correct observation, confirmed by silence. “But that's too bad, because I think you're interesting.”

“You'd rather try to solve the mystery of my identity than have sex?” Mouse looked at him, doing an incredible job of being seductive despite his face being swollen and bruised. It was clear that sex was just a distraction, but as Mouse battled with the zipper on House's jeans, it turned out to be an effective one. 

“I can do both.” House insisted, his voice betraying him. Mouse seemed to take that as a challenge, a finger tracing the bulge in House's jeans, while his tongue trailed down his neck, to his chest, stopping to lap at House's nipple. “Fuck!”

“Maybe.” Mouse teased. “Do you have a condom?”

House regretfully had to shake his head. “Idiots find there way here after having sex while stupid, cleaned me out. Do we need one?”

“Does sex make you stupid, House?” Mouse pulled back, as if disappointed. “I have needle marks everywhere there's a vein, and I have no idea what I've been injecting myself with. I know you'd have noticed that, you notice everything. So yeah, if we're to have penetrative sex, we'd need a condom.”

“Right, I know that.” House pouted, until Mouse took pity on him. 

“But there's plenty of other stuff we can do that isn't penetrative.” Mouse resumed the kiss, which had less heat than before, and less intimacy as he struggled with the button on House's jeans. However, Mouse's little victory dance when he finally popped the button made up for it. House was too relieved to mock him for it. Sex and a show, he could hardly complain. 

House toed off his trainers, shimmying out of his jeans, wincing at the pain in his thigh. Mouse didn't wince though. He didn't even flinch at the dent in House's thigh, where the muscle had been chopped away. He didn't look disgusted, but filled with concern. 

“Maybe we should move into a more horizontal position.” Mouse suggested, thinking of House's comfort. House gestured to the foam rectangle in the corner of the office, which barely passed as a mattress. There was also a pillow and a blanket. “You sleep here?”

“Yes!” House snapped, feeling defensive. Mouse had no right to want better for House, especially since he took such lousy care of himself. “Where do you sleep?”

“I don't.” Mouse admitted, looking down. The moment had the potential to turn very angsty, so House intervened with a kiss, taking Mouse by the arm and leading him to the mattress, ungracefully lying down, pulling Mouse on top of him, careful of Mouse's broken leg. The splint was placed so Mouse could bend his knee, but it still must have been painful. Mouse endured the pain, straddling House, shimmying down so he could kiss House's damaged thigh.

“That doesn't bother you?” House asked, unfamiliar. He was used to prostitutes doing what they were paid to do, and he was used to girlfriends ignoring it. He'd never seen anybody acknowledge it with such affection. 

“I'm caressing it with my stump of a hand.” That was just the way it lined up, House's right leg with Mouse's lack of a left hand. “I think you have more of a right to be bothered by me. You had to patch me up, and this is the only way I can think to repay you. I may not be much to look at, but hopefully I can still make you feel my gratitude.”

Mouse was too good at playing seductive, and Wilson's voice was warning House that that should be a red flag. House ignored the protests in his head, because Wilson was always the first one to fall into bed with a damsel in distress. Mouse was offering, and for the first time since Wilson had died, House had wanted that human contact. 

“Do you remember what happened to your hand?” Wilson insists on making small-talk, much to House's frustration. He did want answers, though.

“No.” Mouse sat back on his heels, in all his naked glory. House couldn't help but place his hands on the man's waist, careful of the bruises, as he listened, uncharacteristically patient. “Casper lost his hand in an explosion. Metsker was a firefight. Walters was bitten by a dog. Every alias has a different story for every scar, every injury.”

“And what's Mouse's story?” House asked, pushing himself up with Mouse still straddling his legs. As much as House enjoyed the view, he enjoyed being closer, pressing a kiss to the skin of Mouse's shoulder. 

“His story doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Why? You think if you know that, you'll be able to solve the mystery?” There was more to it than that, but that was all Mouse seemed willing to believe. 

“It's a piece of the puzzle. I want as many pieces as I can get.”

“It's stupid.”

“Now you have to tell me.” House insisted. “I promise I won't kick you out of bed. At least not until after we've had sex and I'm sure you're not going to get yourself killed.”

“I'm already dead, but we could skip the talking and go straight to the sex.” Mouse leaned down to kiss House, but House leaned back, tilting his head away.

“No thanks, I'm not into necrophilia.”

“Interesting, because you seemed fine with having sex with a couple of ghosts in the room.” It was a low blow, and Mouse seemed to recognize that. Still straddling House's thighs, Mouse shifted his weight, so House's legs wouldn't go dead. Mouse didn't know whether to stand up, run away, or simply collapse next to House. “I'm sorry.”

“And I don't want to talk about that.” 

“I know. But I'm still sorry. I'm sorry I'm not him.” Mouse didn't say the name, but it was obvious he was talking about Wilson. House wasn't ready to hear it, especially since Mouse seemed genuinely sorry. 

“You're you, and that's still more interesting than most others. So tell me the story already.” House asked, nicer than what was in his nature. “What, do you want to make me beg?”

“Kinky, but I wouldn't want you to put yourself out of your comfort zone.” It was clear Mouse was outside his comfort zone. Most people love to talk about themselves, it's what they know best. Mouse lacked that perspective. “You know those zombie movies? Where they get bitten, but the virus takes a little time to spread, so they chop off the limb that was bit? I think someone did that to me, and I'm grateful to them for it. Told you it was stupid.”

“Viruses aren't stupid. They can be cool. Might have been a boring one though, if your mind is turning it into something like that.” House teased, but his eyes were drawn to the needle marks on Mouse's body. They might not be the marks of an addict, but of a scientist looking for a vaccine. Maybe the infection caused the amnesia, or maybe that was just a part of the story. “Did you used to have a chainsaw for a hand, too?”

“Don't start calling me Ash, please.” He'd grown quite attached to the name 'Mouse'. “I don't want a weapon for a hand. I don't... I don't want to hurt, I want to protect...” Something had clearly touched a nerve, but House found himself unable to observe objectively. 

“Hey, you don't have a weapon for a hand.” House assured him. “Not this one.” House kissed the metal tips of Mouse's stump. “Or this one.” House kissed Mouse's right hand, taking one of his fingers in his mouth, licking and sucking in a suggestive manner, which was absurd because Mouse seemed oblivious. At least until House's erection reminded him of what he had offered. 

Mouse wrapped his hand around House's dick, dutifully, and Wilson bugged House until he finally asked, “why are you doing this?” but then he regained control of himself. “I didn't tell you to stop, I just...”

“You're still trying to solve the puzzle.” Mouse smirked, his hand tugging on House's dick in a slow and steady manner. “But it's no mystery. I'm doing this because I owe you, and this is all I have to offer in my current position.” House was about to protest that, but this thoughts were cut short by Mouse grinding against House, kissing him in a way that shortcircuited his brain. “If you only had a condom, I was going to let you fuck me until you passed out.”

“Fuck.” House repeated, almost shooting his load there and then. He needed to be smarter than that. “Then you're going to leave, while I was asleep?”

“That's the plan. I'll have to raid your wardrobe, if I'm not to draw attention once I'm out of here, so I'll try to make this the best I can. I'm a little rusty.” The Mouse's tongue lapped the crook of House's neck, his hand squeezing just a little harder, distracting House from his thoughts.

“I, er... all out of condoms, but there's lube in the cabinet. Top drawer.” Mouse stood up, walking over the cabinet, giving House time to catch his breath and clear his thoughts, a little. He still appreciated the view. “I want to finger fuck you.” Mouse hesitated at House's statement.

“Why?” He looked nervous. “I owe you, you don't owe me.” Mouse didn't like to be touched, and he didn't like to be fucked. A corollary of people having sex while stupid was that sex made people stupid, and Mouse was too smart for that. House had a theory that you could be smart and miserable, or dumb and happy. Mouse wouldn't even allow himself the briefest moment of happiness, unless House made him. 

“I want to.” It wasn't a lie, exactly. His hands were reaching out for Mouse, just to touch him. He knew that Mouse would put House's desire for physical contact over Mouse's fear of being touched. Another self-sacrificing idiot, just like Wilson. 

“Okay.” Mouse agreed, still clearly quite nervous. With the tube of lube in his hands, Mouse started walking back to House, House making him stumble as he found himself being pulled back on top of him. House pulled him into a kiss, which was spectacular, like an electric circuit being connected once again. 

House took the lube, struggling to get the cap off, still kissing Mouse and thrusting his hips upwards, desperate for contact. The way Mouse was working him, House had to hurry if he was going to make Mouse come before him. 

Once the cap was off, lube was squeezed out by House's enthusiastic grip, spilling everywhere, but coating his fingers. His left hand was on Mouse's shoulder, pulling him closer, sliding down to Mouse's back, resting on his butt, grabbing what little flesh was there. 

“You ready?” House asked, which Wilson assured him was the polite thing to do. Wilson was still feeling guilty, knowing that Mouse wasn't really ready for this, that he didn't want it. House assured himself he was doing what was right.

“I am if you are, Greg.” Mouse offered him a small, shy smile. Gregory House kissed Mouse, before inserting his first finger inside him. Mouse's instinct was to bury his face in the nook of House's, hiding his face. But House wanted to see. He had to look for signs of pain, because he was sure Mouse wouldn't tell him. He wanted Mouse to enjoy this. 

House was enjoying it. It would be so easy to get lost in the way Mouse was touching him, the pressure and speed always changing to keep him on edge, but not push him over, not yet. It was efficient and dispassionate, which was usually the way House enjoyed it. But things had changed. He'd changed.

Mouse gasped when House found his prostate, moaning so loud it seemed to scare him, but House thought it the sexiest sound he'd ever heard. He kept stroking, watching the stone-faced Mouse as his mouth parted, his eyes so dark. It was fun to watch Mouse lose control, to falter in his actions because he was too busy feeling for once. 

There was still doubt in Mouse's face though, guilt for the pleasure he was experiencing. House didn't stop though, finger fucking Mouse until he finally came, biting his lip so hard it bled again, but careful not to make a sound. Even through an orgasm, through chemical induced happiness, Mouse still uncomfortable, doubling his efforts to make House enjoy himself. 

Wilson was right, House shouldn't have manipulated Mouse into doing this, and the fact that Mouse didn't protest didn't mean anything except that he didn't know any better. House should be the one to teach him, but he couldn't do that if Mouse had left.

House came, grunting Wilson's name. 

Mouse collapsed next to House, exhausted. His hand sticky, but not as sticky as House's stomach. With Mouse lying on his left hand side, bad leg trapped underneath him, his right hand was free to trace patterns in the drying fluid, feeling the skin and lean muscle underneath. House knew he should move, but he couldn't bring himself to, not yet.

“I'm sorry I'm not him.” Mouse apologized, once again, no bitterness in his voice, just genuine compassion.

“That's not...” House didn't know how to explain. “You remind me of him.”

“No. Doctor Wilson was a good man.”

“Yeah, that's why you remind me of him.” Gazing at the sleepy man, at his weary face, scarred and bruised, House wished he could protect him, the way he protected Wilson, the way he'd failed to protect him in the end. “I shouldn't have pressured you into this, I'm sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Mouse didn't understand. Maybe he couldn't see how damaged he was. But House saw. He knew what the faded scars on Mouse's back meant, the scarred urethra, the prosthetic testes. House didn't know the specific story, but he knew the diagnosis. Fear was just another symptom. Mouse may have ignored it, but House shouldn't have. Wilson would have respected it.

“I know you didn't want me to fuck you.”

“But you did, so it's okay.” Mouse insisted, snuggling closer, clingy in his exhaustion. 

“It's not. It was wrong, and I did it anyway.” 

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I don't think you're well enough to leave, and I don't want you to leave. It was either this, or drug you.” House answered honestly, which he probably should have done from the beginning. Everybody lies. 

“I don't know which drugs are in my body, so you made the right choice.” Mouse assured him, struggling to stay awake.

“You're rationalizing it.”

“I'm being objective. I can't be angry at you, when I told you I was doing the same thing to you. Sex induces sleep. I was going to use it to leave, and you used it to get me to stay longer. It's the same.”

“It's not the same, because I like sex. I like it better with hookers, because I get what I pay for. I pay people to get me off. I don't think you do.”

“I came, didn't I?”

“Doesn't mean you enjoyed it.” House pointed out, rendering Mouse speechless. He was such a boy scout, he couldn't lie.

“Does it matter?”

“It should.” Mouse was even more confused by that.

“If you had asked me, I couldn't have stayed.” Mouse was still assuring House he'd done the right thing, oblivious to his own feelings. “You know he would have stayed if he could. I'm sorry I'm not him.” They both knew he meant Wilson.

“Yeah, yeah. So you keep saying.” House grumbled, but he wrapped him arm around Mouse's shoulder, as Mouse's head came to rest on House's chest. “Shhh, get some rest.”

“I don't want to sleep.” He sounded so scared.

“It's okay. You're safe here.”

“I know. But others aren't. So I don't deserve to be.” There was a few seconds of silence, but Mouse was still fighting sleep. “You know I'll try to leave when I wake up, don't you?”

“We'll deal with that then.”

“I don't want you to be alone.” Mouse was still thinking of House. “Nolan always told me that isolation was the quickest way to lose one's mind, and soul.” Finally, Mouse's breathing evened out as he fell into a deep and much-needed slumber.

House couldn't sleep. He had a puzzle to solve. And now he had a familiar name that might just be able to help him find more of the pieces. House may have rejected Doctor Nolan's psychiatric therapy, but if Mouse was a patient, House was willing to reach out to him for some answers.


	4. Psyche Consult #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House decides to call for psychological back-up while trying to solve the mystery that is his latest patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Discussion of rape and trauma, but Doctor Nolan is a therapist, albeit not a very objective one in this case.

House's body would have been quite content to fall asleep, his patient softly snoring on his chest. However, Mouse deliberately said something before he passed out, something that House's mind was refusing to let him ignore. Mouse name-dropped Dr. Nolan for a reason, and the self-sacrificing idiot probably did it hoping House would call for a therapy session. House refused to cave in to such blatant manipulation. 

Still, he couldn't sleep, despite how cosy he was, with Mouse snuggling him in a way that was more like a child than a lover. When House inelegantly struggled free, standing with a hiss due to the pain in his leg, he was at an even better angle to see Mouse sprawled out, naked. 

House walked, without his cane, to get a blanket to cover Mouse. It wasn't because he was disgusted by Mouse's wounds and scars, no, House was a Doctor, he'd seen far uglier things, but they never troubled him like this. This time, House was disturbed because Mouse seemed so vulnerable and susceptible to injury, to abuse. And... he cared about that.

Most people sleep in a fetal position, even soldiers, if the space permitted. Mouse slept like a child, completely uninhibited, and even though it looked like he'd been preyed upon many times, he still slept like that. And House wanted to watch him sleep, as if he'd learn all the answers to every question he's ever asked that way. It was illogical and irrational, so House put such thoughts out of his mind.

He tried to think of other things instead, but the only other thing he could really think about was himself and his own situation. House was dead to the world, since he faked his death, and the world was largely dead to him. He had to look up Doctor Nolan's phone number, about to dial, when he decided to look up the number for the Clinton Mission Center instead. 

“This is Clinton Mission Center, Sister Margaret speaking, how can I help you?” The voice on the end of the line asked. For a few seconds, House didn't know how to respond. “Hello?”

“Hi. I'm Doctor... Walters.” House lied, adopting his patient's alias, (one of them, at least) wondering if she'd recognize the name. 

“No you're not.” He could hear the smile in Sister Margaret's voice. “How is he?”

“He's sleeping. He took quite a beating.” House glanced back over the sleeping Mouse. “He doesn't remember who he is. He remembers the stories, that he's told others, but he can't remember the truth.”

“Maybe he doesn't want to know the truth? But, knowing him, maybe the truth isn't as bad as he fears.”

“Do you? Know him?” It was just professional curiosity, House assured himself. 

“I'm not sure anybody does.” Sister Margaret sighed. “I think he's the same man that's been sending lost souls to us for over a decade. Different stories. I'm not getting much sense out of the guy he sent here at the moment, but he's safe.”

“So there was a guy? Was he beaten?”

“No. He said there was a corpse, defending him.”

“Well, my guy was beaten pretty badly, but he's alive.” House glanced over at Mouse, the blanket moving up and down as he slept. “You should tell your guy that, and I'll do the same. Mouse will be happy to hear he's okay.”

“You named him?” Margaret exclaimed. “You named him Mouse?”

“Yeah, and before you yell at me, I know I'm not allowed to keep him. He's made that abundantly clear. But I'm not going to release him back into the wild until I think he's ready.”

“Until he's ready, or you're ready?” Sister Margaret asked, before House hung up on her. He called Doctor Nolan instead.

“Nolan?”

“House?” Nolan recognized the voice. House somehow hadn't anticipated that. “What year are you calling from?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know I'm supposed to be dead and all, but I'm not calling about me. Did you have a patient? Dissociative Personality Disorder? He has an 6 inch vertical scar on his chest. His left hand has been amputated. Sound familiar?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Yes.” House was getting frustrated with Nolan. 

“What is it?”

“Classified.” Nolan could tell House was on the verge of hanging up, so he elaborated. “If I told you, you might tell him, and that could trigger another psychotic episode.”

“Do you know what triggered this one?”

“No.” Nolan admitted reluctantly. “I only know he went AWOL. He would never leave if he were sane. He's so loyal, the act of leaving may cause psychosis, if it wasn't the product of it.” House chuckled at that, but it was a sad chuckle, as he tried not to say what was on his mind.

“When was he raped?” House wasn't good at not saying what was on his mind.

“Did you have sex with him?” Nolan loved to answer a question with a question.

“Yes.” House answered through gritted teeth. “And yes, I knew. I needed him to stay, so I wanted him to sleep. He initiated it. I reciprocated. I'm disgusting, I know, but you haven't answered my question.”

“Which identity did you sleep with? Because there's an 8 year old kid in there, one I find it hard to remain objective about.”

“What? You think I would have... Fuck sake, Nolan. You know me better than that. 8 year olds don't have a brain. You have to have at least an IQ of triple digits for me to be interested.” House could understand Nolan feeling protective over the patient now, but to accuse him of that was just... House had enough reasons for self-loathing without adding that to the list. “Was that how old he was, when...”

“It was how old he was when his father died, but that wasn't the inciting incident. Realizing what evil there is in the world, that's what did it. Kid watched too much news, he watched and he understood. Little kid believed in superheroes, but knew that evil existed and good couldn't stop it all the time. He's still that little kid.” No doubt, Nolan felt paternal towards the man. House felt something too, but it wasn't paternal. “You're a little kid as well, House, but not like him. He's still...”

“Innocent.” House answered. 

“No.” Nolan's voice was thick, as if with regret. “He's fighting a war, so there is blood on his hands, but he's still... hopeful. He's seen the worst the world has to offer, and he still believes it's worth fighting for. It's inspiring.”

“It's moronic.” House fired back. 

“How bad was it?” Nolan asked, knowingly. 

“Compared to the scars he already has, I guess this beat down was nothing to him.”

“His body means nothing to him.” Nolan confirmed. “Which is why I don't think it was a physical trauma that set this off.”

“Rape isn't just physical.”

“No, it's psychological too. But he understands the psychological, House. And he uses it to rationalize what has been done to him. He doesn't care what happens to him. He'd rather the bad stuff happened to him than anybody else. He's told me that directly. That's never changed, and though I wish it would, I'm not sure it ever will.”

“How old was he, when he was first...?” House can't bring himself to use the word any more. “How old was he when he had to have the surgery?”

“That was before my time.” Nolan admitted with a pained sigh. “I don't have access to those records, and he won't talk about his time at Military School.”

Late teens would fit, but it was also so long ago, House didn't want to imagine what had happened between then and now. “When was the last time?” House couldn't understand how anybody who had gone through that would let himself be in such a position again. The guy clearly could protect himself if he wanted to, but he only chose to protect others. 

“About three years ago” Nolan recalled, his voice cracking unprofessionally. 

“I know rape survivor's sometimes have rape fantasies, because they can be in control...” House was trying to understand, and failing.

“It wasn't like that.” Nolan knew better. “He realized that prison wardens over at Rykers were abusing their prisoners, so he intervened. Then the prison went in lockdown with him inside. He protected the prisoners and the guards, taking more abuse from the guards than the prisoners one they realized what he was trying to do, who he was. And he still used the fact that the guards didn't kill him as an argument for their rehabilitation.”

“He put the safety of prisoners over his own safety?” House couldn't understand that mentality. 

“Yeah, and they respect him for it.” Nolan huffed. “They still try to kill him, but respectfully. He'd rather die trying to do the right thing, than live worrying he could have done more to help.”

“What about those that just want him to live? For a guy with multiple lives, it doesn't sound like he has much of a life.”

“I don't think you're in a position to judge what is living and what isn't, House.” Nolan reminded the legally dead man. “But you're right. He doesn't see himself as a man, or even as a boy. He only sees the world, and he does what he can to help make it a better place.”

“Taking a beating doesn't make the world a better place.”

“Oh, he may have been beaten, but I highly doubt he's defeated. He always finds his way back in the end.” Nolan had seen history repeat itself so many times. Especially from this man. 

“So you don't reckon it could have been a physical trauma that made him like this?” House was out of his depth, but he was still determined to solve the puzzle. 

“I highly doubt it, at least not a physical trauma done unto him. Whatever triggered this episode is likely psychological, and there's no simple solution to the psychological, House.” Nolan had spent decades delving into certain psyches, and his time exploring House's mind had taught him a thing or two. “Since when do you care about the psychological?”

“Since when was caring such a bad thing?” House asked, even as he watched Mouse stir in his sleep, clearly troubled. Caring /was/ a bad thing, if that's what it did to a guy. Wilson cared too much his whole life, and that got him nowhere in the end. House knew it was bad to care, it caused nothing but pain. But it had been a long time since he'd felt anything. 

What he felt when he looked at Mouse, even as Mouse was starting to whimper, tossing and turning and so clearly in distress, House couldn't define it. It felt strangely like hope, which was illogical and irrational, but it wasn't something he wanted to lose again. 

“House, I'm telling you to leave this alone and let him be. This won't do you any good--” House hung up on Nolan, so he could tend to Mouse and his exceptionally horrid nightmare.


End file.
